Spacecraft diners with lemon tea,
macaroon stools, and the fake bouquet of 
lilies.

I called the diner for reservations
for three years from now.
It's my favorite diner-- oblong
and absurd-- obscenely reminiscent 
of everyone's collective desire
to look down at earth from the moon--
it took us all to space over bites
of egg and bagel and chrome.
My father and I spent time on Mars
there and he taught me that galactic 
travel was like fruit loop 
rings around Neptune.

The waitress at the desk was confused 
about the reservations. She said
that no one made reservations
for diners-- that there were two
seats ready for me now at the front
of the place-- those red macaroon 
stools-- bubbly like a fountain Cola and--

I hung up before she could talk
about the Belgian Waffles and strawberries --
I said three years-three years I 
need three years to plan out
where I'll be going and who
I'll be sitting with and whether 
or not I will stack up the creamers
like a castle or a freight train 
-- I could be headed to Jupiter by
then you know?-- But I don't know how
far I will be-- I could be 1% milk
poured between the Gemini stars
into a bowl of asteriods
strewn like hot oats--  

I could be looking to settle in the Red Apple
City. It's the closest earth comes
to the brightness of a star-- it challenges 
the pin holes of Capricorn and Cancer and 
dances likes Orions hips.
I was born pretending to live 
in New York-- I could find myself 
the tin-lunch box dine on the corner 
of 9th and 10th Avenue
where the lemon tea melted my
hands into your pockets-- and to
me I love everyone I ever met
like warm mugs and yellow Splenda
packets-- we need to save the sugar
cubes to make a castle to live in anyway--
Love is easy with only lemon tea
and winter and pockets 
and macaroons to sit on.

The lilies on the counter
are fake. They're always fake
in spaceships and diners-- flowers
don't last in space travel and they
can't breathe Jupiter or pancake
or macaroon. Flowers don't drink
tea even if encouraged to even 
when they can see how far away
earth is from the moon.

I called back. 
I told the waitress that it's okay
that they don't take reservations. 
I told her I just wanted
to let the diner know that in three
years or so if they still were still
serving Belgian Waffles that I might be
there for two seats on the spiny
macaroon stools. I told her that 
me and another person as warm as mug
might order lemon tea and that I know
the lilies are fake. Fake lilies
don't dispear while you're not
looking like quiet stars-- that means 
the lilies will still be there in three years
no matter if we end up 
looking out at the stop light
on the street corner between 9th and
10th avenue on the surface of an Apple or
the spoonfuls of asteroids that
jostling like taxis in the cereal bowl.